The Return & Release
by mamafrigga
Summary: Sherlock's been gone for 2 years, & that might have been too long. He needs John, but had John moved on? WIP- setting up to be a long one. Johnlock, angst, drugs, prolly smut later on, but for now absolutely delicious angst. Open to reviews and such. Please. I need them to help me write.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock!" Sometimes he still heard it in his sleep, the sound of John's voice, the panic seeping from it. The cruelest trick he ever played and Sherlock Holmes had always felt that he had hurt himself the worst with it. As he watched from a distance, he viewed John slowly moving on. He began to smile at Lestrade and Molly again, he laughed at Anderson's ridiculous theories (theTardis was John's favorite theory) and then John met Mary, began dating Mary, and bought the ring for Mary and then Sherlock knew. He knew without any doubt that John had moved on. Well, without much doubt. There were still those moments where John would suddenly, with absolutely no warning or thought, end up at the cemetery, staring down at the false headstone that Sherlock himself had paid for. The first year had been hard. John went to the tombstone frequently, nearly every day, and spoke to it and cried. Gods did he cry.

Sherlock even caught John writing his own notes a few times.

John didn't talk about that with anyone though. Not even Mary. He would delete the notes or save them to a hidden and encoded folder on his laptop. He thought he needed to save them as testament to himself that he never just forgot or abandoned Sherlock.

The second year was better. Sherlock watched John begin to laugh and smile. When he was confident that John would be alright, he left then. He left the country, but couldn't stay away for long of course, and then Mycroft. Bloody fucking Mycroft. Sherlock could hardly think about his brother without adding a startling list of swear words. Wanker was always at the top closely followed by Tit. Mycroft brought him back, easily Sherlock was embarrassed to admit. All he had to mention was that one name; that one name that haunted Sherlock's dreams. The name invaded his nightmares so it wasn't Moriarty that shot himself in the head, inches from Sherlock's face, but the owner of the name. Other nights, it was that name that Sherlock breathed heavily, his body sweating and hot and ridged with passion and pleasure. John Watson.

"He's asking her to marry him. She's a nice girl. I'm sure you've seen her, but still, I thought you should know. It's not that I care about him or you or any type of….relationship," Mycroft said the word with a sly smile, "but I'm tired of this level of denial from him. It's irritating. I want him to admit it."

Sherlock tightly gripped the edge of Mycroft's desk in his hidden away office, most likely underground given its lack of windows, "Admit what?"

Mycroft _smirked _at his younger brother, "Oh please. Sherlock, you and I have always been above other people. We know that and recognize it. That's why I've never found a goldfish as you so well put it once. You though….you've been in love with John Watson a long time. It's nothing to do with sexual orientation either. It's simply that he's the only human being to ever challenge you or keep up with you and make you feel happy. You love him as a person. It's admirable and I'm proud of you, but he associates it with being 'gay'. A term he seems to frown upon on some level or another. I want him to understand that it's little or nothing to do with gender and everything to do with the person. So please for the love of everything intelligent in this universe, please go find him and make him understand this because I'm tired of this plot line and it needs to wrap up." Mycroft had smiled then at his brother, happy that one of them understand what it felt like to love.

Sherlock donned his coat, loving every moment of it. The sleeves fit how they needed to, the elbows worn just enough that there was little friction as he moved freely. It was lovely. When he popped the collar up, he could hear John's chortle in his head and the whisper of "You and your coat with your cheekbones," and it was all said with so much love Sherlock smiled from the depths of his soul and knew he needed to find John.


	2. Chapter 2

((Wrote most of this while listening to I Will Wait and that was a BAD idea since I've also been drinking quite a bit tonight. –sobs openly-))

"Not dead…." He breathed. Sherlock had wanted to do this differently. There had been a number of lovely scenes played out in his head where he had met John in a painting-esq park or bridge and it had been all smiles and soft words and ended in embraces and, in a few of the fantasies, kisses, first kisses that should not have been their first; kisses that should have happened ages ago.

But instead he got this. He got a shitty disguise in a fancy restaurant and John in front of him verging on tears and rage and Sherlock was trying to smile though inside he was sobbing and clinging to John and all that came out with a strangled laugh followed by, "Are you really gonna keep that?"

The night was wrapping up. Sherlock's nose was bleeding and he felt bruises on his neck, but he relished them. They were sign of his being alive and more than that, a sign that John was there and real and cared. John hadn't kissed him, hadn't hugged him, but he had put his arms around Sherlock and had been as close as he could be. Sherlock knew that was his way of dealing with this and accepting it. Sherlock looked over to the cab and his eyes locked with John's. The emotion was painfully raw and painfully there. The relief, the hurt….the love. It was there. Sherlock saw it and felt it even from the sidewalk where he was, pressing a napkin against his nose trying to stem the bleeding. He hardly heard Mary as she chuckled at him and said she'd talk John 'round. Sherlock liked her enough, but he felt that it needed to be him by John's side, not this girl who had never seen John at his worse and his best, his most adventurous. Sherlock was an addict to drugs, to his smoking, to his intelligence and John was as much an addict, but to Sherlock and to the danger and adventure and blood that came with the taller, black haired man. And so the night ended with Sherlock's eyes following the cab with blood dripped down his lips and chin and onto his coat that he loved so much. The blood would be like another chapter of his life on the coat. There were chapters written into the fabric of gunpowder and gravel, chapters of pet hair and flour and now there was the chapter of blood and John Watson.

The next couple of days were painfully quiet. Literally painful. Sherlock would cringe every few moments at how silent it was without John tapping away. He couldn't go back to the flat. John was living there now, again, with Mary and Sherlock couldn't go. It pleased him that John was somewhere Sherlock knew. He debated doing something stupidly romantic and 80's like standing under the flat window with a giant, outdated stereo, blasting some ridiculous love song. That wasn't his and John's story anyways. Their story wasn't a love song that had been written yet because their love hadn't finished yet. The songs didn't end until the two parties ended up in each other's arms. John wasn't in Sherlock's arms though. He was upstairs in Mary's.

"You aren't being very secretive," John called to Sherlock across the street. Sherlock perked up and his pitiful expression vanished off his face as John jogged across the street to him. "I've been watching you out here for the past hour. What are you doing Sherlock?" John asked, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets and gripping the fabric inside.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, thinking and staring at John, willing himself to not blink. Blinking meant that you missed something for a split second and Sherlock needed every moment to view the man before him. "Why are you doing that? You've never done that before."

"Doing what?" John asked, the shadow of a smile on his face. It was his expression he wore when he was hiding something or thought someone was being stupid.

Perhaps both, Sherlock thought briefly, taking half a step closer to John. "You're grabbing the inside of your pockets. It's a….desperate type of gesture. Something people do when they don't trust themselves. What don't you trust?" he asked of John, but the question was little more than a breathed whisper.

John gazed up at Sherlock and said nothing, but Sherlock noted the increasing tension in his form.

"Are you trying to prevent yourself from punching me again? Hitting me over and over and over? It doesn't fix anything, nor answer any of your questions," Sherlock told the blond before him and he found himself wanting to grip the inside of his pockets. As he slipped his hands into his coat to do just that, he grinned at John, "I see you shaved. That mustache was nothing. You should have seen me before I came back to London. I hadn't cut my hair or shaved for….oh a year I suppose. I looked very haggard indeed."

John only let out a bark of laughter. "I bet your hair looked like something indeed. All those dark curls down about your shoulders," his eyes glazed over just a bit as he looked up at Sherlock's face, seeing him, but also seeing into him. "Two years. Why? Why did you do this to me? Your mum knew, Mycroft….Molly for fuck's sake!" he laughed again, but it was nervous this time and his grip inside his pockets lessened, "But not me. Me. I lived with you and I followed you and I lo-" John stopped himself.

"Please say it," Sherlock begged, hands clenched tight in their pockets, nails biting half-moons into his palms. "I came back just to hear it, you know. Now you're….you're getting married soon. Nothing I can certainly do about that, so please, this once, you should say it." Sherlock wanted to hear John say the words, but knew he wouldn't be able to handle it if he did. The words would warm like fire, but also burn through everything just the same.

John's sigh was like a soft breeze to Sherlock's ears. He looked up at Sherlock and his eyes were sad, regretful. "I loved you, Sherlock Holmes. I still love you."

Sherlock smiled at John and blinked and tears fell and added to the blood stains on his coat. Added another chapter to his life.

The chapter in which Sherlock was loved and knew he was loved.


	3. Chapter 3

The wedding was a looming, dark, nightmarish thing for Sherlock. The date lurked before him and leaped out at him from calendars with sharp teeth and cruel words. John was getting married and it certainly wasn't to him, Sherlock Holmes.

The scene on the street had ended promptly after John had confessed his love. The end had not been from either of them, but from Mary sauntering across the street in a blue sweater dress that hugged every curve and made Sherlock remember that John's biggest problem with loving him was that it came with the label of 'gay' and John seemed to greatly dislike that. Sherlock's smile had dropped off his face and slipped into the drain pipe as she came over and latched herself onto John. Of course she had every right, this woman who perhaps subconsciously flaunted her engagement ring on her hand. A startlingly strong part of Sherlock wanted to shake Mary and scream at her that she needed to go away.

"He's not yours! He never was! He's mine! My heart and soul and my understanding! He's mine! My John!" Sherlock screamed at her in his head. The words rattled and echoed in his brain as he offered them both a curt nod, eyes lingering on John like one clinging to the last memories of a dream, and then he walked away. Walked down the street, shaking out his coat around him and popping the collar up and clenching his teeth thinking about how there was nothing he could do, even with the knowledge of John's feelings.

Mycroft deftly put Sherlock's bowtie to rights and smiled at his brother. "The wedding isn't for hours. Why are you putting the suit on now?"

"I want to ensure that it fits me exquisitely," Sherlock answered back, admiring himself in a tall mirror that was against the far right wall. He tugged at the vest buttoned over the long sleeved button-up and then pushed his shoulders back. Abruptly John's face was in the forefront of his mind. John's face after….after….

"I loved you, Sherlock Holmes. I still love you."

The breath that came forth from Sherlock was shaky and his hands gripped the back of the chair in front of him till his knuckles turned white. Wild blue green eyes stared up at Mycroft and Sherlock began shaking his head. He released the chair and took steps backward, seeing the room in front of him, but in a secondary tandem with John in front of him that day on the street. Steps echoed in the room till his back was pressed flush against the cold stone walls and Sherlock buried his face in his hands. The emotions that hit him came like waves, horrible waves that didn't let up or end and as Mycroft gently touched his younger brothers shoulder, Sherlock snapped his head up and his pale skin was even more bleached of color except the ruddy cheeks and wet streaks down his face from tears that flowed and flowed and he was unable to stop.

"Oh Sherlock…this is why we avoid people," Mycroft sighed, looking down at him and pulling his brother to him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist and something broke in him. Going from silent tears to loud, body wracking sobs, Sherlock gripped at his older brother like Mycroft was the only solid thing in this world that was tearing him apart. He tried to keep the noise down, but it wasn't enough. His feelings for John were not something that were meant to be kept quiet and so Sherlock opened his mouth and let out a gasping cry followed by a series of yells, sobs and gasps. Mycroft said nothing, but held his brother, his poor sensitive brother, as he cried piteously while kneeling on the ground.

No. The wedding couldn't happen. Sherlock couldn't let it happen.

With these thoughts in his head, he ran. Sherlock's feet pounded into the pavement, his hair fell in tangles around his eyes and sweat dripped down his back as he _RAN_. Did John love Mary? Perhaps, but it wasn't for the right reasons. John didn't love Mary for simply being Mary; he loved her as a replacement for what Sherlock had left behind. But Sherlock was back now and she didn't need to be there in his place anymore. John didn't need to marry a woman he didn't truly love. John didn't need anyone but Sherlock.

Feet were aching now. Why hadn't he just taken a damn cab? With a shake of his head, the thought was gone and Sherlock was breathing again as he hurtled over a small fence around the church. The wedding still wasn't for another two hours. More than enough time, or so he hoped. Sherlock threw himself through the door of the church and didn't even bother to spare a moment for the large group of early wedding guests who gasped at him and offered him disapproving looks. All that was in his head was John and it was with the image of the only human Sherlock wanted that he charged forward up a set of stairs knowing exactly where he needed to be.

The door to the room John was using as his own changing room burst open and slammed harshly into the wall and framed in the doorway was Sherlock Holmes, breathing heavily, sweating, more pale than normal except for flushed cheeks, hair stringy and suit horribly disheveled.

"What the ruddy hell are you doing?" John screeched, exasperated with his former flatmate.

"Get OUT!" Sherlock yelled at the other groomsmen in the room. His voice was like hell itself and the rage and fire in it killed any rebellion the others might have had as they squeezed themselves past Sherlock and out of the room. As the last of them left, Sherlock slammed the door shut and clicked the lock home as a form of insurance against any interruptions.

Hands against the door, fingers splayed, Sherlock took a breath that filled his lungs to a painful point. As he let it out, he turned to look at John and the tears were already falling.

"I need to know now….can you love me again?" was the simple question that passed his cupid's bow lips and flowed across stagnant air to John.

Doctor John Watson froze. Any thought or action that had been present in his train of thought was gone and demolished by Sherlock standing before him and it was then that the littler details jumped out. It was obvious that Sherlock was sweating and even a bit dirty, but it was now in the harsh lighting of the room and the stunningly acute senses of shock that John noticed Sherlock's eyes were red and puffy and that there were tears threatening to spill down those sharp, pale cheeks. He noticed that the suit was not only disheveled, but also seemed to have wet spots on it. Sherlock not only appeared to be on the edge of crying, but had been previously crying.

"I'm…this is my wedding day!" John shouted at him, waving his hands towards his suit, towards the decorations that had somehow even made their way up into this room.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. God he wanted a cigarette. "I know. That's why I'm here and why I'm saying I need to know _now_. Can you love me?" The blue green eyes were intense when they looked up to meet John's. Sherlock didn't blink, he didn't want to miss even the slightest tell in John's movements; he didn't breathe either, holding his breath not wanting to miss a single solitary thing from John.

The moment was still, paused and the two men stared across the room at each other. The silence was deafening and killing Sherlock. It felt like this went so far beyond this room. It felt like the whole world had stopped and everything in the universe was collectively holding its breath. John looked away from him and out the window. With John's strong back to him, Sherlock broke and the sobs came out again, the body wracking sobs that drove him to his knees and the tears welled and spilled out and splashed on his front and on the carpet.

"I love you," Sherlock wailed, "I've loved you for so long and I didn't know that was what it was." He bawled and dropped forward to his elbows, face pressed to the ground as it all spilled from him. "You're the only person in this whole of living that's ever been here for me. You never ran from me, you always ran with me. I love you for you. It's got nothing to do with gender or some simple, normal, bullshit like that. I love you as you are, who you are." Sherlock sat up, feet tucked under him and stared at John, whole body language that of one who has given up entirely, "I love everything you are and I always will John Watson. So I'm asking…begging you…leave with me. Please."


	4. Chapter 4

((Sorry for the slow update. I've been working three jobs, so yea. Hope this chapter helps. I should tell everyone now, this is going to be a very long angsty story. Warnings for M/M and drug use implied and angst and blah blah…))

Everything stopped. The silence was infinite. A heaviness Sherlock could feel in his bones; something that expanded almost painfully with every breath. The heaviness shifted as his ears adjusted to the deepening silence of the room. It left him, that heaviness, slowly, and was replaced with a feeling of emptiness. He imagined the heavy part of him floated away into a sky scattered with glowing golden clouds, the sun a burnt orange behind it. Sherlock wondered if his first response to John's silence should be fear or wonder? Had the earth itself paused in its rotating to ponder over the stillness of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes? Had the stars and planets and the universe itself turned its eye towards the blond man in contemplation at his silence, his stillness, his pause? Sherlock wondered how it would be if everything stopped. If the world drew a collective breath and all he had was infinite outreaching quiet that allowed him to hear the planet grow and the galaxy around him spin. A quiet that allowed Sherlock to think on the orchestra of stars exploding and birthing and the gaseous nebulas reaching out wisp-like tendrils to coax life into the new burning hearts of these stars. In this silence, this deep, grounding silence, he felt near overwhelmed by the sounds of life. The ability to hear with ease John's shaking breaths, a child laughing somewhere downstairs; he even fancied he could hear plants growing and animals breathing; the whole collective community of the planet moving in tangent; breathing, growing, stepping, laughing all as one. The overwhelming truth of silence.

Minutes had passed and still John had said nothing and still Sherlock was slumped on the floor. Sitting on his feet was far from comfortable, but there was something reassuring about his ability to feel pain, so he didn't move, pale hands spread out over his knees and starkly contrasted against the deep black of his new trousers. Sherlock's brain was on fire, playing out every possible scenario all at once, and he could hear all the other groomsmen outside in the hall explaining to passerby what was happening and that none of them could get in. That was at least amusing until one of them commented on how "Sherlock just ran in there and now they're being gay together," the others chortled, Sherlock had rolled his eyes and growled. It was commentary like that that was the reason John hadn't been with him years ago.

John cleared his throat in that way he had and turned around. Sherlock saw it in his eyes; John was going to choose Mary. Sherlock's face crumpled and his body shook again, the tears coming through hot and fresh and burning and he hated them. He hated the tears and the fear and loneliness. Part of him smirked and whispered darkly that this would be his undoing and that Sherlock should really wave his sobriety goodbye because without John he would have no control. There was a bottle back home, one that even John hadn't found, but Sherlock had never forgotten about it; the bottle had once been orange, but had since then been sharpied in. Inside this bottle were the last remnants of a life Sherlock never spoke about, a life where he had, in fact, never even really been there, not mentally at least. The pills, the powder, the lovely dust of stars, had seen to that and it and a fresh pack of smokes were there at the flat waiting with open arms for him should this one final rejection prove to be too much.

It would be too much. John stared down at Sherlock who was hardly able to breath. John was wavering. There was this little twitch he got in his left eyebrow when he wasn't sure if the decision he made was the correct one, but he wasn't speaking and that was the most worrying part of all this. John spoke often and spoke very well and made a great deal and point of speaking his thoughts, especially to Sherlock. Only ever to Sherlock, till Mary came along.

"Sherlock," John began, voice soft but still oddly choked, "You….this is my wedding day. Why now? Why are you here now? Why couldn't you have told me this before? Why not on the street when I told you that I-" he cut himself off and shook his head, that little shake that always made Sherlock think of a dog trying to get water out of its ears. "I can't leave. You know I can't leave. I'm getting married. To Mary. I love Mary."

"No you don't!" Sherlock spat back at him cruelly. "You are using her as a replacement. A replacement for me. Well I'm here now, so send away the replacement and take the real thing," he stood as he spoke and stepped closer to John, noting in his mind that the floor was sinking in some places and that made it very creaky.

John scoffed and stared at Sherlock like he was the biggest idiot. Maybe he was. John certainly seemed to think so. "You were gone! You stupid twat! You died and left me here for 2 years with no word. Yes, I found a replacement, I will admit it. She was a replacement for you. At first. Things changed though. I fell in love with her and I do love her and I want to get married to her!" John was shouting at him; shouting meant that feelings were there and possibly getting bruised.

The chance was there, it was brief, but Sherlock saw it and took it. John was taking a breath to yell more, but he had paused all the same and in this moment, this second, this fraction of a second did Sherlock have his chance. Possibly the only chance he would ever have if John's resolve stayed strong.

Sherlock's hands were cold, but John's face was wonderfully warm against them as he placed them on either side of the doctor's face, cupping his cheeks more or less. Sherlock was even more surprised at how burningly hot John's lips were pressed to his, but then he realized it was more likely to do with the feelings involved than the actual temperature of John's body. It was like fire, a fire that healed and felt absolutely wonderful against him. Sherlock had closed his eyes when he had kissed John, he wanted to remember every single faucet of this feeling and visual stimulation always took away from the feeling. Then he felt what he wasn't expecting….John. John had moved his arms around Sherlock; one arm around Sherlock's shoulders, the other higher up so that John had a hand fisted into those dark curls holding Sherlock to him tightly.

A moan floated across the room from between them and Sherlock couldn't tell if it was from him or John at that moment. Or maybe both. The two of them kissing and united and moaning in unison at the delicious completeness of this one, simple, overdone, action. Sherlock's left hand slid down John's face, fingertips trailing down his neck and over his chest. He pressed his palm flat to the center of John's chest and felt the heart pounding there. Pounding was the only word to describe it. It was practically beating against John's chest in a mad dance for Sherlock and it made the man with the dark curls smile. The man who cared not for people and the things that they did in their lives, smiled as he kissed the man he loved and pulled back to show John this smile and paused.

John was crying, very nearly sobbing as Sherlock had.

"I'm sorry," he said shortly, wiping at his face. "I know I shouldn't have done that, but I had to, just once."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but all that came out was a whisper of a sound.

"I can't be with you Sherlock," John continued, refusing to look at the face in front of him, the owner of the hands that were still touching him, one on his face, then other against his chest. "I'm going to be with Mary. I'm getting married to her today. I love her," he finished and the hands dropped. John finished wiping his face and checked himself in the mirror. He didn't look nearly as bad as he thought he would. "I would like you to stay for the ceremony though. You are, after all, my best man," he turned and flashed Sherlock with a dazzling smile.

"Snap out of it!" Sherlock heard his brother's voice snidely in his head and shook his curls, wrang his hands and pushed it away, slipping his 'publically acceptable' smile into place for John. "Of course, John. Anything for you." Inside his mind was turmoil and his heart was beating raggedly and he knew where his little bottle of goodies was at home, at the home John wasn't coming back to so Sherlock wouldn't have to worry about anyone finding out. And so he smiled and dreamed of the relief he would have soon.

To be continued.


End file.
